Forever
by LittleLongHairedOutlaw
Summary: May 1882. It is not-quite-a-wedding because they are not allowed one, but it is real enough to them and the Daroga is anxious.


**A/N: I first wrote this fic back in November, and discovered today that I never posted it so here it is! A brief return to the world of Running Through the Rain, set three years later and likely the last fic I will write in that 'verse. Also, the story behind That Photograph that modern!Erik finds in Fifteen Christmases.**

**I hope you enjoy and please do review!**

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There are tears in Henry's eyes, and somehow the simple fact of them is enough to catch Fahim off guard. It is far from the first time he has seen tears in those eyes. But instead of grief, of pain, of betrayal and loss and betraying lungs, these tears are softened by the twitching of his lips, by the smile attempting to break through his composure.

It is only the second time he has seen tears like these. And last time (three months ago) they were directed at Warren.

It is a wholly different experience for them to be directed at him.

"Absolutely dashing." And if Henry's voice has more gravel to it than usual, Fahim has learned to overlook that. "Erik will be speechless."

The nervousness that has bubbled in Fahim's stomach for three days, that has kept him from sleep and left him jittery, flutters again, and he swallows hard against it. "He'd better remember his vows."

Another quirk of Henry's lip as he fixes Fahim's tie. "If my own experience is anything to go by," and he smooths Fahim's lapel to give himself cover to catch his breath, "then they will be impossible for him to forget." He nods and squeezes Fahim's hands. "And you won't forget yours either."

That worry is just one of the litany that has kept him awake. That he will forget the vows they've agreed to take, that Henry would fall ill, that Etta would go into an early labour, that Erik would change his mind, that something, anything, would happen to prevent this day.

But his vow are turning in the back of his mind, a susurration of promises, practiced in the quiet of an empty trail, only Darius to hear and Darius cannot tell a soul. And Henry is well, still smiling, still breathing, and he hasn't had a serious bleed since—since that time last year (and Fahim shakes his head to clear it, because he resolutely refuses to remember those weeks of terror in every moment.) Etta is adamant that the baby will not be born without her say so, will not have such a dramatic entrance into the world, and Philippe gave that slight smile and said he worries more about her now than when she used to disappear and he didn't know if she was even still alive.

And Erik.

Erik.

Erik is here, is getting ready in the other room with Christine. He has not changed his mind. He has not saddled up and decided to leave even though sometimes the restlessness is as clear in him as it was that first winter in El Paso, when between them and their differences and their histories they almost tore each other apart. They have sworn their love for each other so many times, but today, in the next half hour, they will swear their endless fidelity, their endless devotion, in front of the small group of their friends. They cannot get married properly, of course. Cannot sign their names to paperwork testifying to what they have sworn. But they can make the same vows, the same declarations, to love and honour each other until they are old and grey and death does them part. And they will exchange rings to bind them together in their own eyes.

It is only three months since Henry and Warren did the same, since Fahim stood at the side of his best friend, smile hiding his tears to think that their time is already dictated, that their happiness is only temporary. He pushed the thoughts away before they could get a grip on him, forbade them to return. He would not stand for being maudlin on the happiest day of Henry's life.

And this is the happiest day of his own life, now. Or will be, when he stands before Erik, Philippe ready to join them to each other even though it will be official in their eyes only. If they were ever going to have their own ceremony, they decided, they each wanted to do it while Henry was still well enough to stand at Fahim's side. And as he looks, now, at his dearest friend, he can think of no one else he would prefer to have beside him for this.

He shakes his head, combs his hand through his hair, and Henry makes a last adjustment to his stickpin, the same emerald stickpin that he and Warren gave him that first evening in El Paso, when he was getting ready to find Erik. In a mere half hour, he will be Erik's and Erik will be his. And there will be photographs thanks to Carlotta, and music thanks to Christine and Sorelli, and the liquor will flow thanks to Warren's preparations, and the food, and afterwards—afterwards he and Erik will ride out, as the sun dips below the horizon, and make camp somewhere out there alone, away from the prying eyes of the town. They will hold each other and love each other, caress bare skin in the moonlight, kiss scars and freckles and blemishes, bring each other to fruition with hands and mouths and they will lie back, bodies entwined, and Erik will point at the stars and whisper of them, of Orion and Procyon and ever faithful Canis Major and Sirius, brightest of all, and whisper of Lupus and Lepus, and Alphard in the Hydra, Regulus and Rigel, the stories all told in the heavens. He closes his eyes, draws a deep breath to steady the pounding of his heart, and sees again Erik's hand, pale white in the darkness, one long slender finger pointing to the stars, and his voice was low in Fahim's ear.

"Their stories kept me sane on that battlefield."

The battlefield. The one Erik lay on during the war, wounded and left for dead, only half-conscious as the wild dogs howled and scavengers prowled through the bodies around him, and him too weak to push off the one that lay over his legs, too weak and too ill, alone but for the dead and the stars.

How many times have they almost been parted? And that night was just one of them, before they ever could have known.

If he had never taken the Deputy job in Fort Griffin, or had been gone on the posse already when Erik shot those men, or if there had not been a posse at all and instead the town was crawling with law. If the rainstorm had not come when it did and instead of the intimacy they shared fuelled by whiskey and proximity he had brought Erik back as he was supposed to. If Buquet's bullet had killed him. If Warren had not ridden out to find Erik and explain what had happened. If they had never found each other in El Paso, or if Erik had ridden out like he almost did so many times and not returned.

If Erik had died, last year, Lawson's bullet deep in his chest and Henry's efforts futile, or if Henry had succumbed to his haemorrhage months earlier and not been there to save him.

Erik has confessed it to him since, that when he drifted on a tide of pain and fever, perilously close to letting go, it was Fahim's voice that tethered him, Fahim's voice whispering of those nights beneath the stars that he clung to. Erik has always spoken of the stars as if they are the most sacred thing in the world, the same softness in his voice as he when he whispers of his love, and Fahim understands, now, the hold that the stars have on him.

They have the same hold on him, engraved deep in his bones.

How could he have ever considered that Erik would have second thoughts? The very notion is the most ludicrous thing.

And here they are. About to have the closest thing to a wedding that the law and the world allows them.

If someone had asked him, nine months ago, as Erik lay pale and still and wrapped in bandages, if such a thing as this might be in their future—

"Five minutes."

Henry's voice is low, and Fahim blinks his eyes open, acutely aware of the ring Erik gave him three years ago in Fort Griffin, still cool on his finger. To think, they might not have met. To think he might have died. To think _Erik, _beautiful, regal, beloved Erik, might have died.

But they lived. They lived and here they are. And it is thanks to Henry and his skilled hands and his brain full of learning.

"If it wasn't for you," he whispers, and his throat is tight with tears, shed and unshed, even as Henry presses a handkerchief into his palm.

Henry's lips quirk into that smile, tinged now with sadness. "What else could I have done?"

And he's right, of course he's right, but dammit Fahim is about to get _married _or as good as, and to Erik no less, and it is thanks to Henry that they are both still among the living, and he can't help himself, he pulls Henry into a hug. Henry's arms come around him, pull him close, and his voice is warm and soft in his ear. "It is an honour to be your friend, Fahim Iravani. An honour." He nods and pulls back, hands firm on Fahim's shoulders, and Fahim has never seen his eyes so blue before. They shine brighter than the sky. "Now. Time to promise away the rest of your life." His lips are soft against Fahim's cheek as they let each other go. "And I am sure it will be a good long one."

Off in the distance, the clock tower tolls the hour. And the turbulence that has trembled inside of Fahim for weeks stills as he combs his hand through his hair one last time, and settles on his hat. Henry nods approvingly, gives his hand a last squeeze and lets go.

One last deep breath, his heart stuttering, and he swallows, smooths his hands over his thighs.

And steps through the door.


End file.
